Down the Rabbit Hole
by MizuTattoo
Summary: Prequel to 'No Visitors After Midnight' and 'Ear Pressed Against the Door.' What could Dean have been thinking right before he snuck into Sam's room? What causes someone to finally jump down that rabbit hole? ONE-SHOT and WINCEST.


_A/N-Here's that tame installment. Just a quick look into Dean's thoughts before the events of _No Visitors After Midnight_. I totally just finished this at work. Bahaha. I don't own Supernatural. _

_Oh, and thank you to everyone who's been reading. It completely blows my mind how many hits these little stories have gotten. Or maybe I'm easily blown. Hee. Blown. Get it? Yea, you get it._

Down the Rabbit Hole 

Dean was drinking to get drunk. Had been tossing back shots between beers for hours now, and each one failed to numb the sickness that had been eating at him for over a year.

_Sammy. _

Self-loathing hits him like a punch to the gut – and _fuck_, will it ever stop gnawing away at him? - so he orders another round of tequila. Despite the fact that he's been to enough bars by now to know that shit doesn't always happen like it does in the movies, he still expects the bartender to say, "haven't you had enough?" and offer him a glass of water instead.

Brainwashing is what that is. At least that's what Sam would tell him.

And wasn't Sam a preachy little bitch? Always harping about eating right (_why don't you have a salad instead, Dean?_) or studying those disgustingly filthy old books (_how do you expect to kill it if you don't know how?)._

Bitch, bitch, bitch.

Sam was always pushing him, trying to make him better, and right now Dean felt like he had been backed into a corner by his brother. He was edgy, furious, looking to lash out, and it was all Sam's god damned fault.

The tequila goes down smooth, but Dean still chases it with a swig of beer anyways. Everything about him feels sluggish, deadened – his nerves, taste buds, reaction time – but the slew of emotions (dirtywrongcan't_feel_this) boiling inside of him are getting more and more out of control. It's like his body has taken all sensation and bottled it into that one thought. That one desire.

And that's just fucked up.

He has been drinking specifically to get some peace, thought that enough alcohol would do the trick, but things are worse now than when he got here four hours ago. Hell, it's been building for over a year now – probably longer. Maybe as far back as the night he ran out of that house with Sam, irrevocably tying his entire being to one person.

Jesus, isn't he supposed to have friends? A girlfriend? A fucking job (a real one, anyways)?

But no, there's only Sam. Sam filling up all the spaces inside of him until there's no room for anyone else. It feels like suffocating, but it also feels like salvation.

And yeah, okay, all that would be fine, even if it _was_ seriously fucked up. But Dean, being the overachiever that he is, has managed to crank it up to a whole new level of wrong.

Dean doesn't just take a gulp of his beer, he downs it in a single swallow. He thinks about ordering another, idly wonders just how much it would take to silence his own demons, then decides against it. He's not suicidal, after all, and there's still the walk back. He can't afford to get too unhinged.

Because he knows exactly what's out there in that bitch of a night, and if any of those fuckers come looking to Dean for a fight he needs to be ready.

No one stops him as he leaves the bar. There's not a single person to take his keys, chew his ass out, walk him home while calling him a dumbass the entire way.

Honestly, it's only been a few hours but he misses Sam.

And it's all Sam's fault.

Earlier this morning, Dean had walked by the bathroom. Normal thing, right? It's his place (well, his and Sam's and Dad's) and he had every right in the damn world to walk by the bathroom.

But Sam was in there, Sam was in the shower, and _fuck him_ but Dean knew and just . . . the door was open and who does that?

Unless – unless they wanted someone to walk by, to lean against the door and listen while they . . .

It's the combination of alcohol, cold night air, and Sam that gives Dean a bad case of vertigo as he's crossing the parking lot. He leans against the nearest car, trying to regain some balance.

As if that isn't a damned laugh riot there. Like he'll ever be stable again, if he ever was.

Because he wants to fuck his little brother.

There - he had finally admitted it. For a year he had protected himself,

refused to acknowledge what all his fantasies meant, all those daydreams and feelings that hit him low in the groin whenever Sam was too near (which he _always_ was, damnit). Even this morning, as he just sat there and watched the reflection of his brother as he stepped from behind the shower curtain, drank it in like a damned pervert as Sam toweled himself dry, and he had still denied exactly how far gone he was.

But it isn't all about sex, and Dean thinks that's an even bigger problem. It's laying next to Sam after sparring, stroking his brother's hair as he dozes off in Dean's lap in front of the television, sharing the last bit of ice cream . . .it's just _being_ with Sam. And he's always been with Sam. Is it his fault if things got twisted this way, some wires got crossed?

And it's Sam's eyes. Those soft, puppy-dog eyes that – a year ago – watched Dean as he had sex with Jenny (Mandy? Claire?).

It had been right when Dean was hitting his stride, making the girl coo like a damned baby, and he looked up and there was Sam.

Sam staring at him like he was the whole world. A flush on those high cheekbones and lips parted as he just sat there and watched.

Dean had never felt so complete. It felt very close to being cherished, and he had realized no one but Sam could ever make him feel like that.

Dean's walking now, frustration and lust quickening his stride as he heads home – to Sam. He's fucked up, definitely, but Sam is the one who started it. Who has been egging him on all year. He would have to be blind to miss how Sam stands so close, decides to strip in seventy-degree weather, has serious bathroom privacy issues. At least when Dad is gone.

God, it can't just be Dean, can it? Sam – he has to feel the same, _has_ to.

_Stop this, Dean. You're the one who's fucked up. Don't corrupt him because you're-_

But all those little signs. Or maybe Sam is being a tease to mess with him.

Fury coils low in his belly at that thought, and all soft feelings disappear.

_Hell, no. Sam _knows_. He's the one doing this to me._

Those last few tequila shots are roaring in Dean's blood, and his thoughts keep circling on _Sam, Sam, Sam._

Fuck, if Dean can't ever belong to anyone else, then neither can Sam.

Dean's walking home, walking to finish something that started a long time ago. 

He's spiraling, spiraling, spiraling down, and Sam's the one who pushed him. But as God as his witness, Dean is gonna drag Sam's ass after him.


End file.
